Today, you’re in for a real treat! These unedited excerpts aren’t available anywhere else on the web, right now, but we were so excited about these upcoming releases we just couldn’t keep them to ourselves! What does that mean for you? Well, aside from getting to read it before anyone else, since these haven’t been released yet, there’s a chance some changes will still be made, which means this is the only place you’re ever going to see these excerpts just the way the authors originally envisioned them!
Proximity warning claxons shattered the silence in the space shuttle. Navigation Officer Selandra responded by quickly tapping pads on the Nav console with both hands. “Sir, a ship just appeared in sensor range,” she reported over her shoulder, her tone sharp with urgency.
“Identification?” From the co-pilot’s seat to her right, Denali scanned his instruments and the viewscreen. Ships were rare on this frontier of space. Had the activity of the Panesh ship dropping off their passengers attracted unwanted attention to the shuttle? His muscles tensed as his fingers touched controls on the panel in front of him.
“Too far away yet.” She spoke crisply while performing her Nav duties.
“Let me know as soon as you identify it.”
Two minutes later, Selandra hissed at him, “Malchovists! They’re closing fast!”
Shock rocketed through him, and he stiffened. Anger and hatred followed quickly, spurting fire into his veins. Malchovists were the Felisians’ mortal enemies and the foes of every other species in Unified Sentient Planets, or USP. They were indiscriminant killers who raided unprotected colonies, as they’d done to the Felisians’ own colony, Felis II, in its infancy.
“Wake Beratim!” he ordered Selandra, while he disengaged the piloting from the computer. He was a communications officer, not a pilot. He knew how to operate the shuttle, but in a fight or flight situation, he knew to delegate to the person with the most skill. Selandra sprinted toward the back of the shuttle, her long bronze mane flying out behind her.
Normally Felisians would fight Malchovists fiercely, but their shuttle was no match for a spaceship in maneuverability, speed or weaponry. Besides, they had their Bonwee passenger on board ….
His mind froze in horror for a second, skittering to a stop at the thought of petite Mala Avonee, captured by the Malchovists. Because of the Bonwee species’ capacity for languages, two other Bonwees had been captured in the past and both had been horribly abused. The Malchovists would systematically torture, rape and starve her until they got whatever compliance or information they wanted out of her. The rest of those on board the shuttle would die, but she would be mistreated until she wished for death. No! Denali wouldn’t let that happen; he would rather kill her himself than allow her to suffer at their hands.
At the sound of bare feet slapping a staccato on the decking, Denali glanced around. The shuttle pilot, Beratim, a young man of nineteen, dashed from the sleeping berths, still in his black military issue pajamas. He’d cut the top of his mane short, but let the rest hang to his shoulder blades.
Denali moved over to the Com station. As his two officers strapped on their harnesses, he turned back to the passenger section where Mala sat with her large Grimari bodyguard, Tarana.
“Belt in. We’ve got company. Malchovists!” He had no time to think in Basic, the language of USP, so Mala would have to translate to Tarana. He knew Mala understood the peril when he saw her face pale. He put on his harness and his earpiece and spoke into the Com, trying to remain calm, even as his heart raced. Their space ship was six minutes away for messages, even longer than that for anything more. He squelched that thought.
“This is BQN2 shuttle. We have Malchovists in this sector. We’re being pursued and are beginning evasive maneuvers. Do you copy BQN-3210?”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their voyage was a routine passenger transport, a favor for USP. Pick up Mala and Tarana from the Panesh and deliver them to the planet Felis II to await the next transport to the USP interior two weeks hence. “An uneventful trip” was how Captain SoAhnor had described Denali’s first command assignment. It might turn into a ride through an exploding nova instead.
While he waited for what now seemed an interminable lag time, he turned toward Beratim and Selandra. He was in charge of this mission, so he’d do the best he could. “Any success at evading them, Beratim?”
“No sir, but I’m trying.” The young man’s voice quavered slightly.
“Status, Selandra?” Denali asked.
“They’re almost within firing range—for both of us.”
“Fire only if you can hit something. Look for a planet or moon to hide behind.”
“Yes, sir.”
A minute later the first hit rocked the shuttle and threw him forward against his harness. The lights flickered. A second, smaller jostling indicated Selandra had returned fire with the laser weaponry on board.
“Status reports?” Denali barked.
“They hit one of our engines!” Beratim exclaimed, his voice going high with anxiety. “I’ve lost some maneuverability and a lot of speed.”
“They’re trying to disable us,” Selandra cried.
“We fight to the death if we can’t get away. Agreed?” Denali demanded.
“Agreed!” Selandra snarled. She was almost his age, old enough for the attacks on the Felis II colony to have been told to her as an impressionable child.
“Agreed,” Beratim said, less vehemently. He didn’t have the proximity to the past that Denali and Selandra had, but he was Felisian, and the Malchovists were his enemy.
Denali turned to Mala and Tarana. Tarana’s black eyes were alert and she had a laser weapon in her big hands already. Mala was very pale, making her green eyes appear huge in her face. He took a deep breath and schooled himself to speak in Basic to Tarana as he addressed her directly. He wasn’t fluent enough to speak it naturally under stress, and she didn’t speak the Felisian language like Mala did.
“The Malchovists want to disable the shuttle so they can board. We will try to get away. We will fight if we have to, but if they board and we lose the fight, you must kill Mala. If something happens to you, I will kill her. Do you understand?” It was imperative that Tarana understand. Mala could not risk capture.
“I understand. I will not let Mala be taken!” Tarana’s face was fierce, skin dark and taut with menace. Her species were the fiercest warriors in USP.
“Tara,” Mala protested, but Tarana began speaking rapidly in what Denali had come to recognize was the Grimari language, all gutturals and harshness.
He turned back to the Com as the return message came in from their ship. “Shuttle, this is BQN-3210. We’re coming! What’s your position shuttle?” First Com’s voice held more than a note of anxiety.
“Selandra, where are we now?” Denali asked.
As Selandra began to yell coordinates, another blast hit the Nav side of the ship. The Nav station exploded in a shower of sparks that threw her backward to the floor. Denali stared in horror at the bloody mess that had been his friend and knew that she was dead. He looked up to find Beratim gaping at Selandra’s body. Tears rolled down the young man’s cheeks.
“Veer away, Beratim!” Denali snapped at the pilot out of his shock.
“Yes, sir.” Beratim turned back to his controls.
Denali spoke rapidly into the Com. “This is BQN2 shuttle. We’re hit! One engine is disabled. Nav is destroyed. Selandra is dead. Last known position was 24.352 by 16.481. We’ve now veered off course. We’ll hide if we can; otherwise we’ll turn and fight. The Bonwee will not be captured. Hurry!”
Denali slipped off his earpiece and harness and moved to the co-pilot’s seat. “How are you doing, Beratim?”
He tried to project a calm he didn’t feel. His heart slammed against his chest with the knowledge that the final minutes of his life were ticking away too fast. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell Mala the startling thoughts he’d had about her since she’d boarded—thoughts of an impossible interspecies relationship, even a mate bond. How could he have found his permanent mate—someone not even Felisian—only to lose her? They hadn’t had a chance at all. He fought off blind panic.
Beratim talked too rapidly with a voice gone high with panic. “It’s hard to maneuver and it’s slow moving.”
“Can you turn enough to make a direct hit when we fire?”
“I think so. Sir, I wanted to live a little longer than this!” It was a wail from the heart that Denali echoed.
“So did I. So let’s do what we can to take these blasted Malchovists with us.”
“Yes, sir!”
The shuttle turned ponderously and the Malchovists’ ship came into view to fill the viewscreen. “You know the weak spots, Beratim?”
“Yes, sir. I learned them in pilot’s training.”
“I’ll hold the shuttle steady and you fire, all right?”
“Yes, sir.” Beratim fired, but nothing happened.
Denali frowned over the instruments. Were they damaged? “Did you miss?”
“No, sir. I don’t know what happened. I’ll try again.”
Beratim fired again and suddenly the Malchovist ship exploded like a sun going nova. Denali threw his arm over his eyes to lessen the brightness of the explosion, while with the other hand he tried desperately to turn the shuttle away from the direction of the blast. Beratim helped with the struggle, but the shuttle was showered with debris, from small particles to massive chunks of hull. The thumps on the hull rattled Denali’s brain with percussive shock waves. The shuttle was rocked over and over and pushed along increasingly fast and out of control in the wake of the explosion.
There was a massive thump, then they lost power and the emergency lights came on. Oxygen masks dropped and Denali and Beratim donned theirs. Denali glanced back to see Mala and Tarana had donned their masks as well.
“Shuttle, do you read? Shuttle, this is BQN-3210 responding to your distress call. What’s your status?” There was panic in First Com’s voice as he called the shuttle. Denali could feel a corresponding panic that increased as internal gravity in the shuttle was lost. His stomach roiled.
“I have to go to Com,” he told Beratim. “Can you handle piloting for a few minutes?”
“Yes sir. Nothing to do right now, but go where we’re being pushed.”
Denali unharnessed and floated out of his seat, swimming in the zero gravity towards the Com station. He finally grabbed the back of the Com seat and brought his body close to the communicator. He took a quick breath from the oxygen mask over the Com.
“BQN-3210, life support is lost. Gravity is lost …” he gasped with his oxygen mask off.
At that moment a huge thump started the shuttle rolling violently and he was thrown headfirst into the Com station. His face exploded with pain. He pushed back from the controls and brought his free hand up to find blood running freely from his nose. Scarlet drops floated in the air around him.
“Sir! Denali, are you all right?”
“I think my nose is broken, but I’m all right.” The rolling motion made him feel ill with his face hurting this way. He covered his face with the oxygen mask while he tried to work the Com, but it no longer functioned. “Blast! The Com’s dead.”
He pushed away from the Com station and tried to keep Beratim in focus as he floated to the co-pilot’s seat. The tumbling of the shuttle was severely disorienting. Beratim caught his arm when he got closer and reeled him in. Denali climbed into the co-pilot’s seat and put on his oxygen mask and seat belt.
“See if you can fire thrusters to stop this tumbling,” Denali suggested.
“Yes, sir.” Beratim fired the thrusters on the side against the direction of the tumble. At first there was no difference, but gradually the tumbling slowed and finally stopped, to Denali’s intense relief. But as the shuttle became stationary two more huge hits of debris veered it in yet another trajectory.
“Planet!” Beratim yelled excitedly.
“Did you get enough data from Nav to know if it’s oxygen atmosphere or not?”
“It’s on your station, sir.”
Denali scanned the data. “This data is twenty-five years old!” Since the discovery of Felis II! “No habitable planets in this solar system. There is oxygen on the fourth planet, but no large bodies of water. Too small to be of interest for colonization, apparently. Which planet is this?”
“Third, sir. I’ll try to maneuver to the fourth planet.”
“There’s no data on this planet due to the density of the upper atmosphere. It was thought to be a gas planet.”
Another thump against the hull veered the shuttle closer to the third planet.
“We’re caught in the planet’s gravitational pull!” Beratim cried.
Denali fired thrusters while Beratim fought with piloting the ship, but the planet had the shuttle firmly in its grasp and began reeling it in. Several smaller thumps on the hull gave them an uneven vector coming into the outermost atmosphere of the planet.
“We’re going down!” Beratim cried.
Denali turned quickly to the two female passengers and in a combination of Basic and Felisian told them, “We’re going down. This planet has caught us and we can’t pull free. Prepare for a crash because we can’t maneuver.”
He stared at Mala, feeling anguish over what would never be. Her face was stark with fear, the skin taut over her cheekbones. Her eyes were huge dark green orbs in the white oval face. Then he turned back to his duty. He couldn’t think of her now and still be able to function.
The shuttle’s exterior hull grew hotter and hotter as it careened through the upper atmosphere, causing the interior to heat up quickly. As Denali wiped sweat from his forehead, he knew the shuttle had sustained a lot of damage to the hull for it to get this hot. There was a lurch as the shuttle finally hit the lower atmosphere and then a feeling of the bottom falling out as the shuttle began to plummet to the surface unhindered.
“Beratim, get the nose up!”
“I’m trying!”
Denali continued firing the thrusters, but there was no slowing the nine metric ton shuttle in its descent. Then he fired the aft thrusters and the shuttle lurched forward. “Nose up! Look for trees or water or sand to soften the crash.”
“I can’t see anything down there. This atmosphere is too dense.”
The thick clouds cleared suddenly. The planet looked dirt brown. Their altitude dropped quickly, but they had no power to break their speed. Denali anxiously scanned the horizon for something that offered a chance for them to survive.
“Over there.” Denali pointed to a patch of dark green he assumed was forest miles away. “Hit the trees.”
The shuttle was traveling four hundred kilometers an hour and reached the green area quickly. As they approached, the green resolved itself into trees. Beratim let the nose of the shuttle fall and in moments the shuttle clipped the trees in half as easily as a laser would. The flight was rough but basically unhindered, although their speed was reduced.
They flew over rocky terrain and then the shuttle hit a second forest at a much lower altitude. The trees broke much more of the shuttle’s speed as they were mown down until, unexpectedly, the forest ended in a rocky prominence on the left side. The rocks scraped the Nav side of the shuttle with the tortured screech of metal.
Denali heard a female scream, but the left side of the shuttle suddenly sprang free of the rocks and the momentum flipped the shuttle over twice until it finally slammed upright full force into another rocky hill.
“Sail ho!”
The strident cry broke over the morning like a blast of the arctic air that had been at their heels since dawn.
“Where away?” The Captain raised his spyglass and swept the rolling vista before him.
“To the starboard, Cap’n. Thirty yards off the bow. She’s lying dead in the water.”
“Making repairs?” the First Mate asked as he joined his captain at the rail.
Catching sight of the unknown vessel lying off their weather beam, the captain shook his head. “Don’t see anyone on her decks.” He raised his eyes to the crow’s nest. “What do you see, Haggerty?”
“Nary a soul moving on her, Sir. Looks deserted,” was the boyish reply.
“Ghost ship,” the First Mate mumbled, crossing himself.
“Stow that talk, Mister!” the Captain snarled, shoving his First Mate aside as he strode away. “Mister Tarnes!” he called out to the Second Mate, who was at the helm, “bring her about. Let’s see what we’ve got over there!”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” the sailor replied and swung the brass-rimmed teak wheel in a lazy arc to starboard.
Genevieve Saur pushed away from the taffrail of her brother’s brigantine, The Wind Lass, and strolled on legs well accustomed to the rolling dip of the seas, to the quarterdeck where her brother and his First Mate were arguing. A smile dimpled her small face and she thrust her hands into the pockets of the cords she wore when on board her brother’s ship.
“You going to board her, ain’t you?” Mr. Neevens, the First Mate, was growling.
“Aye, we’re going to board her!” Genevieve’s brother growled back.
Neevens shook his shaggy gray head. “Not this old tar! I ain’t going aboard no ghost ship.” He screwed up his weathered face and stuck out a pugnacious jaw to emphasize his point. “I ain’t boarding no ghost ship!”
Genevieve grinned when her brother cast her a furious glance. She shrugged in answer to his silent plea for help. She watched his gray eyes harden with pique.
“We’re going aboard her, Neevens, and that’s the end of that!” Weir Saur shouted at his First Mate. He fixed his winter gray eyes on his sister.
“You coming?”
“Naturally,” Genevieve replied, eyeing Neevens with a pretend look of admonishment. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“And what about beasties?” Neevens snapped. “You afraid of them, missy?” The old man held her gaze, his whiskered chin thrust out, his watery eyes steady.
“There are no beasties on that ship!” Weir shouted. “Ghosts, either!”
“You’ll see,” the First Mate shot back. “You’ll see!” He spat a thick stream of tobacco juice over the rail and squinted at his employer. “You come back without a head attached to them smug shoulders, Cap’n, we’ll see who was right about beasties and such! You ever heard the tales of the NightWind?”
A vicious crosswind, aided by a troubled sea that was beginning to show signs of a coming blow, heeled the Wind Lass over on the starboard tack. Cold waves broke over the knightheads, shot high in the air, and dropped with a roar onto the forecastle as the brigantine made for the unknown vessel.
“See?” Neevens grumbled. “NightWinds don’t like to be bothered!”
Looking windward, the Captain frowned and his voice was a curt bellow as he looked up into the shrouds. “I want those topsails close reefed.” He turned his eyes down to his sister. “I don’t like the looks of that sky.”
Genevieve turned her head and saw what had her brother concerned. The sky was a mottled gray; darker streaks of yellow were shot through the lower section of sky, making the flesh of the horizon appear bruised and sickly.
“Gale?”
Weir nodded, his mind on the nimble-footed sailors scurrying up the rigging. “Take in the topgallants while you’re at it!”
The Wind Lass slipped effortlessly over the heaving waves, a steady hand at her helm. She slid in beside the unknown vessel and dropped anchor, riding the sea with a rolling pitch that left no doubt as to the turn of the weather.
“You going with us or not?” Weir asked his First Mate as the old man peered cautiously over the distance between the two ships as though something would lurch across the spans to take hold of his scrawny body.
Mr. Neevens snorted, spat, and looked at his Captain. “Might as well,” he grumbled. “Aint got nothin’ better to do.”
Genevieve hid a smile as she turned to study the other ship. There was no name on her bow, no identification markings. Her hull had been painted black but here and there along the wood, great gouges of paint had flaked away leaving gray streaks where the weathered wood showed through. Her rails were tarnished; the wood chipped in places, some of her rigging flapping loose in the freshening wind. Her sails had been furled, lashed down to the yards and masts, and the creaking timbers and the rub of the shrouds were the only sounds that greeted the boarding party at a quarter to nine on that Friday morn.
“Where the hell is the crew?” Weir asked, as he studied the decks that looked as though they hadn’t been sluiced in a good many days. Salt was caked in the cracks of the decking, splashed up the masts. The hatchway stood open, the darkness from below decks a sinister gash of silence.
There was a smell about the ship, an alien, somewhat malevolent aroma that seemed to make the eerie quiet all the more prevailing.
“You ever smelled anything like that?” Mr. Tarnes, the Second Mate, asked his captain. Weir shook his head. “Smells almost like burnt flesh, doesn’t it?”
“Do you suppose the beasties had a barbecue last eve?” Genevieve quipped, elbowing Mr. Neevens in his scrawny ribs.
“That’ll do, Genny,” her brother cautioned, giving her a stern look from beneath his chestnut brows.
“Well, let’s go on below and see what we can find,” the girl quipped, unconcerned by her brother’s fierce scowl. “There’s nothing up here.”
“You afraid of anything, missy?” Mr. Tarnes snorted. He looked at the young girl with the look of a man long-accustomed to dealing with precocious females.
“I’m not particularly fond of snakes,” Genny admitted.
“Well, I’ll venture to say there are no snakes on board,” Weir growled as he walked to the hatchway. He looked down into the darkness, and then with a deep breath, stepped gingerly down the companionway.
The cabins were empty, the galley devoid of provisions, and the captain’s stateroom almost denuded of both furniture and nautical charts and equipment.
“Pirates,” Mr. Tarnes said, nodding. “They was hit by pirates.” He looked around the great cabin. “Took everything that wasn’t nailed down and then some.”
“Shanghaied the crew?” Weir asked, trusting Tarnes’ knowledge of the subject.
“That’d be my guess, Cap’n.” He poked among a pile of scattered papers on the captain’s desk and lifted a single sheet of parchment. Squinting, he read the paper, drew in a quick, troubled breath, and then handed it to Weir as though it was poisonous. “Sailing orders, Sir.”
Weir scanned the parchment. His brows drew together and he looked up at Tarnes. “A prison ship?”
“Ain’t marked as such,” Tarnes told him, “but that there order says she was carrying prisoners bound for Ghurn Colony.” A wry grin settled over the man’s rugged features. “Looks like the pirates got them some additional workers if this here lady was carrying prisoners.”
Genny shivered. It wasn’t that she was bothered by the mention of pirates; after all, wasn’t that what she and Weir had decided to take up now that they had lost their family holdings? Wasn’t that why they were out here in the middle of the South Boreal Sea learning the ropes from Tarnes and Neevens? What bothered Genny Saur was the mention of the penal colony at Ghurn. If things didn’t go right for her and Weir that was where he was bound to wind up. As for her, she’d swing from the nearest yardarm since there were no prisons for women, only nunneries, and she knew gods-be-damned well she wouldn’t let them place her in one of those hell-holes again.
“Did you hear that?” the First Mate suddenly squawked as he pushed up hard against Nathaniel Tarnes. He grabbed the other man’s arm in a punishing grip and plastered himself to Tarnes.
“Hear what, you old fool?” Tarnes snarled, pushing the First Mate away from him. “All I hear is your teeth chattering!”
“No,” Genny replied, looking at her brother. “I heard something, too.”
“Like what?”
“A thump. There! Did you hear it?”
Weir cocked his head to one side, listening. His eyes narrowed. “Aye, I heard that.”
“Sounds like it’s coming from the hold.” Tarnes shoved Neevens out of his way and ducked out of the Captain’s cabin and walked to the forward companionway that led the lower deck. He stopped, listened. “Aye, it is. It’s coming from the hold.”
“Could they have locked the crew down there?” Genny asked.
“We’ve been on this ship nearly an hour. Don’t you think they’d have heard us board and have made some noise before now?” Neevens inquired, his eyes jerking about for the beasties he expected to see at any moment.
“Could have thought the pirates had come back,” Tarnes told him.
“I ain’t going down there,” Neevens informed them. He pushed himself against the cabin wall. “I just ain’t, that’s all there is to it.”
“Fool!” Tarnes called him.
The hatchway down into the hold was battened down; locked with a heavy padlock that appeared to be newer than the hasp into that it had been fitted. It took both Weir and Tarnes’ combined strengths to pry the padlock open with a crowbar Genny found above decks. Once the padlock was off and the hatch opened, an overbearing stench assaulted the boarding party’s nostrils, making eyes water and stomachs roll.
“By the holy ghost!” Tarnes gasped, covering his mouth and nose with a hastily-drawn kerchief. “What the hell is that smell?” He gagged, swallowing a rapidly-rising clump of bile that was threatening to erupt from his watering mouth.
“If that’s the crew, they’ve been down there awhile,” Genny murmured, holding her nose and breathing heavily through her parted lips.
“I’ve never smelled such foulness,” Tarnes mumbled, his eyes watering from the stench.
“Ho, there!” Weir called into the blackness of the hold. “We’re from the Wind Lass. Is anyone there?”
There was silence from the ebony depths.
“It could have been rats we heard,” Weir said.
“Mighty damned big rats to have made a thump like we heard.” Tarnes squinted, leaned over the hatchway, and peered into the darkness. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
“Genny, go find us a lantern or something. I’m not going down there without a light of some kind.” Weir Saur was a brave man, but darkness was not something he was comfortable with.
Genny nodded at her brother’s request, well understanding his one weakness, and left to do his bidding.
“Ho, there!” Weir called out again. “Is anyone there?” Only more silence and a horrible waft of the stomach-churning stench greeted his hail.
“God, but that’s a right offensive odor!” Tarnes said. “What the hell could cause such a smell?”
Weir didn’t know and he wasn’t so sure he really wanted to find out. The smell had an evil about it that bespoke the very bubbling pits of hell. “Whatever it is, there sure can’t be anything human living in it. I can hardly breathe up here.”
A flicker of light washed over the men and they looked over their shoulder to see Genny striding forward with two lanterns swinging in her hands. The light from the amber-tinted shades cast her small oval face in an ivory glow, lighting her forehead while the area below her nose was lost in deep shadow. If Mr. Neevens had seen her coming at him like that, he would have bolted for sure.
“When I was in the galley, I found something very interesting, Weir,” she told her brother.
“What?” Weir Saur accepted one of the lanterns from his sister.
Genny handed the other lantern to Tarnes. “There were a lot of herbs and roots lying scattered about the cook table and there was a crucible of quinine on one of the shelves.”
“Sounds like they had fever on board,” Tarnes said.
Genny nodded. “There’s a lot of that at the penal colonies, I hear. Looked as though they were brewing a remedy for malaria.”
A sound from behind them made the three turn in surprise, but upon seeing who had joined them, they relaxed.
“Find anything?” the newcomer asked.
“We’re about to go down into the hold. We heard a sound earlier, but there wasn’t any answer to my call,” Weir said.
Genny looked at the newcomer and smiled, as she smiled every time she was within eyesight of Patrick Kasella. Her gray eyes twinkled, her ivory complexion ran a peach blush and her heart skipped a beat or two every time her brother’s best friend and partner looked her way.
“What is that godawful smell? Is that coming from the hold?” Patrick asked, smiling briefly, brotherly, at Genny before turning his attention to Weir. “Surely that can’t just be bilge water.”
“I don’t think so neither, and it’s getting worse the longer we stand here,” Tarnes quipped. He stepped gingerly over the hatch and put his booted foot on the top rung of the ladder leading into the hold. “I’m either going to see what’s causing it or faint from the smell of it.”
The men didn’t see the hurt look fall over Genny’s face at Patrick’s easy dismissal of her; not that the Ionarian had ever looked at her with anything other than easy dismissal. In his charming, North Boreal way, Patrick, or Paddy as his friends called him, treated Genny no differently than he did the rest of Weir’s crew. That he didn’t seem to see her as a budding young woman bothered no one but Genny, certainly not Weir who didn’t want any man looking at his sister in any way other than brotherly.
Weir stepped down the ladder behind Tarnes and Patrick followed. The men didn’t think of Genny until she bumped into Paddy’s back as she stepped off the ladder.
“Damn it, Genevieve!” Weir cursed, eyeing her with displeasure. “We don’t know what we’re going to find down here!”
Her pert nose in the air, Genny glared at him, her lips pursed tightly together, still stung by Patrick’s unknowing disregard. “So?” she challenged.
“You’ve got no business being down here until we find out what’s causing that godawful smell!” Weir snarled. “There could be plague or the likes down here!”
“Hush!” Tarnes cautioned. He squinted. “There it is again.” He hefted his lantern and peered about the hold. The stench was worse where they stood, enveloping the four of them in an atmosphere that was almost palpable.
“I’ll look to the aft,” Weir said as he took Genny’s arm. “You come with me.”
Paddy followed behind Tarnes as the Second Mate made his way amidships and then, finding nothing but splintered wood from broken open cargo, ventured further into the deeper darkness of the stinking hold.
Weir stumbled over a coil of hemp and bumped hard into the bulkhead, banging his shoulder painfully against the wood. He almost dropped the lantern in the process, but Genny reached out to steady him.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Weir grumbled as he wiped his hand down his pant leg. There was thick, slimy moisture on the wall of the ship’s hold. “What did it sound like?”
The young woman listened hard, shushing her brother as he repeated his question. She inched forward, searching the planking beneath her feet.
“Look at this, Weir,” she said as she pointed.
Weir came forward and lowered the lantern. “There’s nothing but bulkhead back there.”
Genny wasn’t so sure. “Do you see anything odd about the wood?” she asked, stepping over another coil of rope as her vision followed the planking.
“No,” he told her. He held the lantern a bit higher. “I don’t see anything odd. It’s flat. What else should it be?”
“We didn’t find anything but unsalvageable cargo,” Patrick told them as he and Mr. Tarnes joined them. “Nothing that could have made the sounds you heard.”
“We may have found something, Paddy,” Genny said.
Weir rolled his eyes, looked at Patrick. “Little miss know-it-all thinks there’s something odd about the bulkhead.”
Genny stooped down, touched her hand to the horizontal planking covering of the bulkhead, and tapped on the wood. There was a hollow sound. She looked over her shoulder at her brother. “There’s something behind this wall.”
Patrick eased around Tarnes and hunkered down beside Genny. He rapped on the planking and gagged. “Mother of Alel!” he gasped. “Whatever that smell is, it’s coming from behind here.” He turned his head away and gathered a mouthful of saliva and then spat, hoping to exorcise the bile riding up his gullet.
“Is there a latch of some sort on this wall, Paddy?” Genny asked, running her hands over the wood.
Reluctant to even touch the wood concealing such a foul odor, Patrick nevertheless put his hands on the planking and felt, wincing at the feel of the slick wood beneath his flesh. His fingers touched something cold, stopped, went back, and fumbled until the smooth expanse of metal ran under his fingertips.
“Here! Weir, hold that lantern closer!”
Bending forward, Weir Saur thrust his lantern close to his friend’s shoulder and caught sight of the iron bolt set into the wood. He watched keenly as Patrick threw the bolt back.
“Where’s the handle?” Genny asked, seeing none.
“Inside spring lock,” Patrick told them as he pushed on the door to release it.
“Holy ghost!” Tarnes gasped, reeling from the stench that shot out from behind the moving panel.
Genny thought she would vomit as the smell assailed her. She crab-walked back from the door as Patrick pulled it further open.
“There’s something there,” Tarnes warned.
A pitiful sound, a human sound, seeped from behind the panel. It was a groan, a cry for help.
“There’s a man in there!” Weir whispered as the light from Tarnes’ lantern fell partially into the hidden area behind the planking.
Patrick looked up. “No, there are two.”
Simon was spoiling for a fight. It seemed, in the blink of an eye, that all of the passion boiling in his veins like acid leapt from desire to rage. He contained it only by a strenuous effort of will until he was certain Clair was well out of the line of battle, then stalked purposefully across the room and seized Seth by the throat. He’d just drawn his fist back to pound Seth’s face to mush when he heard a sob.
He froze.
Seth didn’t. He slammed his fist in an uppercut to Simon’s solar plexus hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Letting out a choked grunt of pain, Simon released his grip on Seth’s throat.
“See what you did!” Seth growled, glaring at Simon as they both listened to Clair’s broken-hearted sobs.
Simon felt a little sick to his stomach. “She is not crying because I kissed her,” he disputed angrily, but doubt threaded his voice and Seth didn’t miss it.
“Right!” he responded. Turning on his heel, he stalked back into the living area.
Simon didn’t move. He listened, trying to figure out why she would have such a reaction to his kiss, struggling to recall if he’d hurt her. It didn’t make him feel any better to realize that he couldn’t recall anything very clearly beyond the fantastic sensations rolling through him at the time. She would’ve made some sound of distress, though, wouldn’t she, if he’d held her tightly enough to cause her pain? She would’ve struggled to break his grip.
Would he have noticed, though?
He wasn’t certain that he would’ve. His genitals were throbbing now with so much pain he could barely think and he wasn’t even touching her now.
After a few moments, when the crying didn’t seem to be abating, he followed Seth into the living area, hoping he wouldn’t be able to hear her as well. It was forlorn hope. His hearing was too keen to spare him.
Angry and frustrated, he moved to the window, trying to close his mind to listening. He discovered he wasn’t particular relieved when she finally stopped and he heard snuffling sounds instead.
Feeling as tired as if he’d been through a battle, he turned away from the window and moved to a chair to sprawl in it, staring at nothing in particular while he turned the incident over and over in his mind. It did no good. He still couldn’t make any sense of it.
He flicked a glance at Seth, certain he understood it but reluctant to ask him to explain. The bastard was arrogant enough about his ‘superior’ programming. Seth had been programmed to think and behave like a human, to believe that he was human before he realized he wasn’t. He understood all of the subtle nuances of emotion, of body language, of socially acceptable behavior.
Neither he nor Cole had been given that because they had never been intended as anything but soldiers—or possibly sex droids. The vast majority of Cyborgs like themselves had ended up as soldiers, however, and soldiers only had to know how to kill quickly and efficiently and how to follow orders. They weren’t expected to ‘interact’. For that matter, the sex droids weren’t, not as the Hunters were, in any case. The programming they’d all received in the event they were sold to brothels had been primarily focused toward giving pleasure. They didn’t need to know more than that—the women who went to brothels didn’t want or expect anything but physical pleasure—so they hadn’t been given more than that.
Finally, unable to contain his frustration any longer, despite the fact that he more than half expected Seth to throw something more cryptic than helpful at him, Simon met Seth’s piercing gaze a little defensively. “What did you mean while ago when you said that I must ‘take my knocks like everyone else’?”
“That didn’t feel a knock?” Seth asked dryly.
Simon ground his teeth. “That is why I asked!”
Seth shrugged. “Trial and error.”
Simon felt his frustration mount. Outrage joined it. “There is no logic in learning by trial and error when the information is known!”
Amusement flickered in Seth’s eyes. It made Simon struggle with the urge to punch him in the mouth.
“The problem is, it isn’t known!” he retorted.
Simon surged to his feet. “You did know!”
“If you’re going to bellow, you’re going to wake her up,” Seth retorted caustically.
Simon sat again. “I am growing weary of your riddles, brother!”
Seth shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Or will not? You knew.”
“I didn’t know. I guessed.”
Simon studied him but he couldn’t detect any sign that Seth was lying. “How?” he asked flatly.
“Experience … or at least, the gods damned programming that makes me think I’ve experienced … Fuck! I can’t sort what I know happened from what I think happened.”
“You will not try to explain!” Simon growled. “You enjoy watching each time I do or say the wrong thing!”
Seth shrugged, a wry grin tugging at his lips.
Simon clenched and unclenched his fists.
“At least I get a little entertainment out of it.”
It took an effort to restrain the anger threatening boil over. “Explain it,” he growled. “You expected her reaction. Why?”
Seth studied him for a moment and finally scrubbed a hand tiredly over his face. “I don’t think it’ll do you any good. You don’t have the programming. Eventually, you’ll assimilate all of the possible variations in behavior and you’ll be able to guess—that’s all it was, an educated guess based on the experiences programmed into my mind.”
Simon glared at him, promising himself that as soon as they left Clair he would beat his brother to a pulp.
Seth sent him a knowing look. “For instance, I can tell you want to beat the shit out of me just from your expression and the conversation we’ve having and your body language that tells me you’re only restraining yourself because you know, or at least suspect, that it’ll scare Clair and you don’t want to.”
Simon’s lips tightened, but he forced himself to relax and settled back into the chair. “I know how to judge battle aggression as well as you.”
“It’s the same thing—sort of. The difference is that women aren’t like men—at all. They aren’t as direct. A woman wouldn’t say she was going to beat the shit out of you. She might even smile, in spite of being furious. Then, when you turn your back on her, she’ll grab whatever heavy object is closest to hand and try to beat it to pieces on your head.”
Simon was disconcerted and couldn’t hide it. “They are not aggressive. They are gentle, nurturing.”
“When they feel threatened, they fight—maybe. That’s what I mean. Maybe, probably, they’ll try to seduce you instead to get you to let your guard down or to soothe the aggression they sense in you. They’re almost impossible to predict—for a man, anyway.”
Simon digested that in silence for several moments. “You expected a reaction out of her that was different from what I expected, however,” he said pointedly.
“Because you didn’t take into consideration the fact that us being here at all was something she would think of as a threat. Aside from that, just grabbing a woman and kissing her is something they can view as a threat. So, even if she hadn’t already felt that we were dangerous to her, she was bound to think that would be.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at him. “You are saying you expected her to pick something up and beat me in the head with it?”
Seth grinned. “See! Completely unpredictable. Denying she enjoyed it was a mild reaction. I think she might have actually enjoyed it a little.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at his brother. “She enjoyed it more than a little. She allowed me to kiss her again.”
Seth’s grin flat-lined. “Arrogance will only get you so far, brother. It’s a lot more likely that she figured to use your interest against you … or maybe play the two of us against one another … as insurance. She doesn’t trust us. She has reason to beyond the fact that we haven’t hurt her. That doesn’t mean she actually likes you, or that she’s interested in you. And she certainly wouldn’t be if she knew what you are.”
“She said that she only had sex with sex droids,” Simon pointed out angrily.
“And you aren’t one.”
“I have the programming,” Simon stiffly.
“I have, if it comes to that, but that doesn’t make me one.”
Simon narrowed his eyes suspiciously and more than a little resentfully. “Why would they give you that programming?”
Seth shrugged. “Who knows what the fuck they were thinking? I’d hoped to find out, but that’s beginning to look doubtful. Cole should’ve been back by now.”
Simon suspected the change in subject was primarily to redirect his mind, but he’d begun to feel a growing doubt that Cole had been successful in his mission himself. “I do not believe you. You were created as a Hunter. Why would they have given you that programming?” he growled angrily.
“You pissed off because you’re afraid I could pleasure Clair just as good as you could? What makes you think I was created specifically as a Hunter? They could just as easily have taken a later model Cyborg and added the Hunter programming.”
“But they did not. You would have mentioned before that you were a programmed pleasure droid if that was true.”
“Exactly why the fuck do you think I would’ve mentioned that? When the hell have we seen a fuckable female?”
“So you admit you want to fuck her, too!” Simon growled, infuriated but feeling vaguely triumphant that he’d tricked Seth into admitting it.
“I don’t recall denying it,” Seth said coolly. “I merely pointed out that your timing sucks and you weren’t likely to get to first base.”
Simon frowned at him. “Why would I wish to go to first base, gods damn it? In fact, I do not! I want to fuck Clair.”
Seth rolled his eyes. “First base—the kiss?”
Simon still didn’t see how the baseball term could correlate with trying to convince Clair to allow him to pleasure her, but he didn’t particularly want to argue about that. “I did get to first base!” he snarled. “And she liked it! And she would have allowed me more if you had not interfered!”
Seth glared at him. “I saved you from getting cold-cocked with a lamp,” he retorted. “I distinctly heard her say she wouldn’t allow anything but the kiss. Not that I think she could’ve managed much damage, but it could easily have given away the fact that you’re a Cyborg if she’d split your scalp!”
Simon studied him suspiciously, but he couldn’t find any fault with Seth’s reasoning. “I suppose you think that I should thank you?”
Seth held up his hand. “No thanks necessary. What else are brothers for?”
There was something about his tone that made Simon more suspicious, but he gave up trying to figure out what it was after a moment. “Thank you anyway,” he finally said, somewhat ungraciously, getting up to pace again since his balls were still throbbing miserably.
Seth looked vaguely uncomfortable. “I said forget it. We’re brothers.”
Seth rubbed his genitals absently, trying to ease the discomfort. “Why does it fucking ache?” he muttered. “I do not recall noticing this before.”
“Back up. You got all ready and now the juices have got no where to go. Why don’t you take a shower—a cold one—maybe jack off while you’re at it?”
Simon glared at him indignantly. “Waste my seed when I am nigh ready to procreate!”
Seth rolled his eyes. “What the hell makes you think you can?”
“What the fuck makes you think I can not?” Simon demanded. “I am ready. I feel this! I know it! This is why I want Clair. I need a mate. This is why I have not been able to think of anything else since she came. I feel … something that compels me to take her as my mate.”
“It’s called horny,” Seth retorted dryly. “It’s got nothing to do with a need to find a mate and procreate—even if you could—and I doubt it.”
“You think you can but I can not?” Simon asked belligerently.
“My mind isn’t on my dick!” Seth said pointedly.
“This is why you keep massaging it? Because your mind is not there?”
Seth glanced down self-consciously at his hand and then glared at Simon. “Well, I might be able to get my mind off of it if you’d just shut the fuck up and focus on the issues here! Need I point out that I was programmed to think like a man and it’s been a hell of a long time since I was with a woman?”
“Why the fuck not? You are constantly harping on it. And while we are on that subject, just how the fuck do you know if you have ever been with a woman?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing that barb had struck pay dirt. Seth looked perfectly blank for several moments and then reddened with fury. “Why don’t we take this discussion outside?” he growled.
Simon narrowed his eyes at him. “Front or back?”
“Back,” Seth said promptly. “There’s no sense in giving away our presence here just because you’re a fucking block headed machine!”
It took all Simon could do to refrain from instantly punching him in the face. Whirling, he stalked toward the patio door, tensing for a sucker punch when he heard Seth almost directly on his heels. He’d barely stepped outside on the patio and pivoted to face his brother, however, when he heard the door slam shut behind him.
The look of satisfaction on Seth’s face as he locked the door was the last straw. Simon slammed his fist against the clear pasti-metal hard enough to create a bowl in the panel in the shape of his fist. Seth didn’t even flinch. “Dumb shit! It’s a good thing we disarmed the alarm!”
“Unlock the door, Seth!” Simon growled.
“Cool off, brother!” Seth snarled back at him, striding back to the couch while Simon watched and sprawling out full length on it.
Simon discovered his fist was caught. He wrenched at his hand several times and finally managed to pull it free. The flesh had burst and blood coursed over his hand and dripped to the patio floor. He stared at it for several moments until the bleeding stopped and then slammed his fist into the plasti-metal over and over, trying to punch a hole through it. The plasti-metal buckled, but held. He did manage to shake the entire wall, however.
He’d withdrawn to examine the hinges on the door when Clair staggered into the living area, stared at him blankly for several moments and finally wobbled to the door and unlocked it. “How did you get locked out?” she mumbled.
Simon sent a sulky look toward the couch. “Go back to bed, Clair,” he said gruffly.
She stared at him through swollen, reddened eyes for several moments, blinking as if trying to adjust her vision and finally merely nodded and retraced her steps. Releasing an irritated huff, Simon stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He was tempted to drag Seth off the couch and beat the fuck out of him, but clearly Clair wouldn’t sleep through that. Deciding to ignore the bastard, he searched the living area for a comfortable place to stretch out. It was empty gesture. The couch was the only piece of furniture that even came close. Stalking to it, he grabbed Seth’s shoulder, rolled him onto the floor and planted himself on the couch.
Seth sprang up almost instantly and flung himself on top of Simon, wrapping his hands around his throat and trying to throttle him.
“What in the …? Oh my god! What are you two …? Never mind! None of my business!”
Norfolk, Virginia
October, 1870
Under a gray sky, Derek stared out the nine-pane window in his study and watched the leaves dance at the feet of the massive oaks. With dossier in hand, his steps measured, his expression somber, Horace Masterson tied his horse to the entrance gate of Stafford House and walked up the cobblestone path. A barrister of high repute, Horace had represented the Stafford family for thirty years with the utmost discretion and acumen. Derek had every confidence the latest incident, whatever it entailed, would be dispatched with the same prudence.
At the rap, Derek dropped Masterson’s latest missive on his desk and looked toward the study door. “Come in.”
“Morning, Derek,” Masterson said, shucking his greatcoat.
“Good morning, Horace.” Derek nodded toward a wingback in front of the desk. “Something tells me the pressing matter you mentioned in your note will chew up some time.”
“Pressing is–is a mite strong,” Masterson stammered, “but the sooner we deal with it the better.”
Masterson draped his coat over the back of the chair and slumped into it while Derek studied him. The man’s closely cropped silver hair, forceful jaw and thin-lipped mouth suited his profession, not to mention the wiry strength of the tall, lanky form that, if need be, intimidated people.
Derek opened the drawer, retrieved a flask and two short glasses and placed them on the desk. After filling them with an ample amount of whiskey, he handed one to Horace and downed his in a heartbeat. “Proceed.”
“I’m here to report an accident at sea, sir.”
Derek lifted his right eyebrow and asked, “Involving one of my ships?”
“The vessel wasn’t damaged, but yes, it did involve the Valor.”
Derek rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The Valor if I recall was en route from Camden, Maine after delivering a cargo of cotton and tobacco.”
“Your recollection is astute.” Horace swung back the amber liquid in his glass and emptied it. “After disposing of the load, she took on the usual passengers and dropped them at their destinations.”
Arms folded across his chest, Derek waited for him to continue.
“I have the report.” Horace dug into the dossier and handed a piece of paper to Derek.
“Signed by Uriah Kendall,” Derek said, scanning the report.
“The Captain, yes, and witnessed by Joseph Nettlecamp.”
“Nettlecamp . . . refresh my memory, Horace, why does his name ring familiar?”
“The First Mate on the Pride at one time and then the Conqueror before he transferred to the Valor.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember,” Derek replied. “A rough sort of bloke who some claim engaged in piracy before the war.”
Horace cleared his throat. “That would be Nettlecamp, a large-framed, stocky man and, fortunately for us, an excellent swimmer. Perhaps you’d care to read the report.”
Derek scanned it quickly, his usual stoic reserve evaporating. Near the last paragraph, he drew a deep breath. “Good God, two people drowned at sea after Kendall gave them permission to embark on a fishing expedition?”
“One Devon Brinsley and his wife, Sadora. Nettlecamp saved their daughter. It’s in the report, sir.”
“By God, man, why would Kendall allow them to leave the Valor to embark on a fishing adventure?”
Horace squirmed in the chair. “The man who drowned claimed to be a fisherman in Camden, adept at swimming, fit and fully experienced to handle fickle weather. Moreover, he said he’d be able to extricate himself if a sticky situation arose.”
Derek suppressed his anger. “Did he also attest to his wife’s,” he scanned the paper again, “and his daughter’s swimming capabilities should a storm erupt?”
With a pain look, Masterson said, “There is no mention of it in Kendall’s statement.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” Derek rose and paced a small area behind his desk. “The report says four individuals left at dawn in a row boat.” He rolled his eyes before continuing, “And failed to return to the Valor by dusk.”
“That’s what it says, yes.”
“Has Kendall run amuck? What would possess the man to allow such a thing?”
“He claims fair weather blessed them that morning and Nettlecamp seemed more than capable of chaperoning the outing.”
“Until the heavens opened and turned the ocean into a swirling sea of death?”
Horace fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “That sums up Kendall’s assessment of the storm.”
“Disastrous, I can think of no other word for it.”
“Yes, sir, thus the reason I came immediately upon receiving the report from Kendall last night.”
“There will be an inquest of course?”
“Coroner Radcliff from Norfolk began one this morning. Obviously, he’ll deem it a misadventure, an accidental death.”
Derek took his seat again, rested his chin in his hand and leaned forward. “Deaths, as in two,” he said, holding up his fingers.
“Yes, two, and thanks to Nettlecamp there weren’t three.”
“Saved the girl, did he?”
“He did, sir, and once he reached a nearby island, he lit a fire and signaled the Valor.”
“Damn, we’re most fortunate Radcliff is conducting investigations now that Union troops have finally abandoned Norfolk.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Horace said with a smile, his first since entering the room.
Derek’s thoughts turned to the war and the occupation of the city, beginning in sixty-two, the year Mayor Lamb surrendered Norfolk to Federal forces under the command of General Benjamin Butler. Only recently, had Union troops vacated and readmitted Virginia to the Union. It would have been easy for him to allow his thoughts to linger on the battles the South had fought to preserve their way of life, effortless to recall Pickett’s charge and the resulting wound he suffered, a wound that caused his leg to ache miserably on a damp day, but . . . .
Horace cleared his throat, drawing him from his reverie. “So about Miss Brinsley, Derek.”
“The girl, oh, yes, where is she now?”
“She doesn’t really fall under the classification of a girl, per se.” Another smile from the normally reserved barrister. “More like a nineteen year-old woman, a very comely one, I might add.” Masterson pulled the watch from his vest pocket and glanced at the time.
Somewhat annoyed, Derek asked, “Must you be somewhere soon?”
The color rose in Horace’s cheeks. “No, not at all. About now, my assistant is retrieving Miss Brinsley from the Cumberland Methodist church on Fenchurch Street and delivering her here.”
“Delivering her here?” Derek asked. “Whatever for?”
“For one, to mollify the Reverend, two, to stop the gossipmongers from engaging in surreptitious speculation over what will become of the orphan.”
Derek swallowed, hard. “Orphan? Has she no family?”
“I believe she mentioned a grandfather in Camden, sir, one Lewis Brinsley.”
“Very well, send her back to him.”
“Impossible,” Horace said. “Radcliff forbids it. He’ll need to depose her, of course, and intensive searches are still underway for the bodies of her parents. Should they be found, there must be proper burials.”
“You know the bodies will never be recovered.” Derek wagged a stern finger at Masterson. “And what’s more, why must we mollycoddle the Reverend?”
“It’s all about a good show of faith, no pun intended. Reverend Hall can no longer house the girl. It’s a modest parish with only one bedchamber, and again, we have the locals up in arms about the hand fate has dealt the poor girl.”
Derek poured another drink and downed it. “Let’s not talk this to death. Tell me what it is you expect me to do to end this messy business.”
“Offer her shelter and employment. After the dust has settled, she will return to this grandfather she speaks so highly of and the bluebloods of the city will be appeased.”
“The bluebloods of the city should mind their own affairs,” Derek said indignantly. “How does this pertain―?”
“Unwanted publicity now that everything has finally quieted. The incident has made the local papers but there’s a concern it might make the headlines of some Northern papers. Bad public relations, you know.”
An exasperated sigh left Derek’s lips. “I fail to see how the ill-fated plight of one woman whose parents drowned at sea―”
“On a vessel owned and operated by one of the wealthiest families in Norfolk, whose Captain failed to take the necessary safety precautions when he allowed a family to embark on a fishing expedition in the middle of the ocean. Resulting, I might add, in the drowning of two people which necessitated a lengthy inquest conducted by our very own coroner. Need I say more?”
“Very well,” Derek said with his hands in the air. “I’ll offer her my own bedchamber if that will satisfy the loose tongues, and she’ll be a guest, not an employee.”
“The employment is at Miss Brinsley’s insistence, sir.”
Taken aback, Derek stammered, “She–she insists on working for her fare back to Maine?”
Horace nodded.
“Rather cheeky, isn’t she?”
Another nod. “I think you’ll agree she’s got pluck, but in an unassuming way.”
“What qualifications does she possess?”
“Never worked a day in her life from what I can surmise, however, she’s adamant she not be forced to accept charity. She doesn’t want to impose, but knows she doesn’t have a choice at this time.”
“Can she cook?”
Horace shook his head.
“Has she served a manor before?”
Another shake of his head.
“What do you suggest I do with her, put a scrub bucket in her hand, a bar of lye soap and turn her loose?”
“Perhaps Crete will be able to tutor her, at least until the smoke clears.” Horace rose from his chair and stuffed his long arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat. “This way, she’ll have a roof over her head due to your kind benevolence and she won’t feel indebted to you or anyone else until Radcliff says she can leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“I really must be on my way. I have another appointment and Miss Brinsley should arrive any minute.”
Before Masterson ducked from the room Derek asked, “Have you spoken to my father about this?”
“Most assuredly, and he agrees that for diplomatic reasons, it’s the only way to proceed.”
Derek headed for the kitchen in search of Crete the moment Masterson ducked out the door. The trusted house servant had been a constant presence at Stafford House long before he entered the world and she would know what to do about their expected guest.
* * * *
Reverend Hall’s mellifluous voice called to Raine through the bedchamber door. “Mister Andrews has arrived, Raine. Are you ready?”
Raine opened the door with the small satchel under her arm and smiled before she stepped out. “Ready as ready can be.”
“I don’t know Derek Stafford personally, but I have it on good authority you’ll be in safe hands.” He gave her a reassuring hug. “It’s only temporary, until you can secure passage to Maine.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Reverend, I shall never forget it.”
“May God go with you, child, and if for any reason you need my services again, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”
Raine took a deep breath and walked from the church. Seth Andrews waited for her beside the carriage. Handsome, young and blond, he smiled and extended his hand to assist her into the buggy. From time to time, Seth glanced in her direction, offered additional smiles, but said little. His obvious shyness gave her ample time to gather her scattered thoughts and sadly, reflect on the death of her parents, an event that had fractured her heart and plunged her into dire straights in the blink of an eye.
“We’re here now, Miss,” Seth said, climbing from the transport to assist her down. “I’ll wait until someone answers the door.”
Raine nodded and moments later, stood before a two-story, red brick mansion outside the village proper of Norfolk. Four alabaster columns reached skyward near the front door, bathed in the shade of a Virginia willow that sat precariously close to the front porch. Dogwoods and rose azalea bushes drowsed lazily beneath the bright morning sun, edging the full length of the cobblestone walkway leading to the ostentatious manor. Contrary to the houses they’d passed near town―residences with a Dutch flair, hip roofed with dormers above the windows, and a chimney at each end dividing the dining room from the drawing room―the impressive structure bespoke of great wealth.
Draped in black satin, a bow with long sashes covered the brass knocker on the scarlet door. She drew a deep breath, flexed her trembling hand and reached for the knocker. During the sum of her life, all nineteen years, she’d never sought employment or for that matter, dreamed it would become necessary. She swallowed the lump in her throat and rapped. The click of heels against a marble floor on the other side of the door approached. She steeled herself for the face-to-face encounter.
“Afternoon, Miss.” The servant nodded and pulled the massive door open. “You must be Raine Brinsley.”
Dressed in a neat, dark gray shift, a white cotton apron hugged the woman’s waist. She eyed Raine head to foot, beginning with her cream-colored, cotton wrapper and the pale gold blouse beneath it. She lowered her gaze to the ankle-length, print skirt and settled on the shiny, black shoes peeking out below her hemline. Raine had brushed her long, dark hair into a high gloss that morning before tying it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck, but now her fingers flew to the unruly tendrils stirring at her forehead and cheekbones.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Yes, Rainetta . . . Raine Brinsley.”
“Mister Stafford is expecting you. “Please,” she said with a smile. “Come with me.”
Raine nodded and stepped into the foyer. Beyond the long entry, two doors came into view, one on the left, and one straight ahead, their arched frames also draped in the mournful black crepe.
The servant turned to her. “My name is Crete.”
“A pretty name, ma’am.”
“My father had a vivid imagination and a penchant for the Greek islands.”
“I’m familiar with Crete,” she said, following her down the foyer. “A mountainous island near the Aegean Sea.”
Crete pivoted and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m impressed. There aren’t many who are familiar with the origin of the name.”
“Well I’ve never been to the Greek Islands, but I’ve seen sketches in picture books. My grandfather believed in the education of children, male and female.”
Crete ushered her to a spacious sitting room to the left of the foyer and pointed to a high, wingback. “I’ll let Mister Stafford know you’re here.” Before Raine had a chance to respond, the servant turned to her with a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry about your parents.”
The familiar sickening dread she’d felt for the last three days returned. Trying hard to dismiss it, she settled into the chair, removed the cotton wrapper and set the satchel at her feet. She scanned the room and its furnishings. A Chickering and Sons piano, with an assortment of framed daguerreotypes on top, sat below a large window and reminded her of the Steinway at home. She struggled to control the nostalgic rush of loneliness pinching her heart. A tapestry sofa with matching high-back chairs hugged the cozy fireplace, and nearby, an oak table held a copy of the family Bible, next to Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Towering oak shelves, stuffed with history annals, atlases and a varied collection of novels and poetry books flanked the gray, stone hearth.
Instinctively drawn to the fire, she rose and stopped to study the pictures on the piano. The first was of an elderly couple. The man sat in a chair and the woman stood beside him with her arm draped over his shoulder. The picture in the middle portrayed a family, a man, his wife, and three young girls―mirror images of their mother. The father of the girls looked glum. His eyes were wide-set; his nose long and pointed, and pock marks appeared on his cheeks and chin. Raine imagined his hair the color of pulp inside a squash.
She picked up the third frame and studied it. The man, a fine specimen of the male species, stood next to a pale, birdlike woman seated in a chair. Neither smiled. In fact, the woman gripped the arms of the chair so tightly, her knuckles appeared white. Perhaps brother and sister.
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “My wife and I several years ago.”
She returned the picture to the piano, mortified she’d been caught holding it.
“On the left, my mother and father, Elne and Julian Stafford.” His slow southern drawl, distinct and pleasing, resonated in the room. “In the middle, my brother, Lyman, his wife Zilpha, and their three daughters, Olive, Ophelia, and Odessa.”
With a stammer, she turned to him. “Sorry, I–I wasn’t snooping. On my way to the fire I stopped―”
“No need to apologize. Miss Brinsley, isn’t it?”
“Raine Brinsley, yes.”
“Miss Brinsley,” he said, bowing at the waist. “I’m Derek Stafford.”
She met his gaze and replied with a short curtsy, “My pleasure.”
“Please, sit down.” With a flourish of his hand, he directed her toward the wingbacks near the hearth.
Tall, lean and well-muscled, apparently the man engaged in physical activity on a regular basis. Dressed in a white cotton shirt and snug-fitting, dark trousers, he looked every bit the virile man in the picture. A morning’s stubble etched his firm jaw line and matched the black hair touching the collar of his shirt. Raine wondered if her short-notice arrival had interrupted his morning of leisure. If so, leisureliness suited him.
“Thank you, I’d rather stand.”
He walked to a nearby chair and settled into it. “Gettysburg. I had the misfortune of serving under General Pickett when he ordered the charge against the Federal line. Took a round in my hip.”
This wasn’t going well in her opinion. He probably thought her a snoop, and now a gawker. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You’re quite observant. Most don’t seem to notice or perhaps they hide it better.” He changed the subject. “I heard about the accident at sea.”
She nodded.
“On behalf of the Stafford family, I apologize for the loss of your parents.”
Pangs of grief washed over her.
“A foolish decision on Captain Kendall’s part to allow such an outing.”
“My father can be quite persuasive, and the weather blew fair until . . . until a storm suddenly appeared.”
“The Captain should have anticipated it.” A long breath left his lips. “You met Horace Masterson last evening?”
Another nod.
“He informs me your father claimed to be a fisherman.”
Her knees trembled, and she could have kicked herself for not taking the chair he offered. “Yes, in Maine, but he had a silly notion he could earn more selling his catch in Norfolk.”
“Well that remains to be proven, but we must deal with your welfare now.”
She found it difficult to concentrate with those intense azure blue eyes studying her. His other features were balanced and symmetric, not one overpowering the other. Well, maybe his mouth, but only slightly. Exceedingly handsome, some internal organ below her waist throbbed and it took all her will to tear her eyes from his face.
“Tell me about this grandfather in Camden,” he said.
A mental picture of Lewis Brinsley, a well-muscled Scotsman with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, loomed before her and brought a sense of calm. “My only living relative in America now.”
“He must be contacted, of course. Has anyone offered to post a letter for you?”
Panic rose in her throat. “Yes, but I insisted Reverend Hall not write to him.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“He’s quite elderly and his health is fragile. I’m determined to tell him in person.”
“But surely he’d want to know about the deaths, be assured you’ve arrived safe and sound.”
She shook her head. “Please, do not inform him in this manner. When I’ve earned enough passage, I’ll return and tell him myself.”
“Ah, that’s right, earned your passage. I seem to remember Masterson broaching the ridiculous subject.”
“It’s not ridiculous to me, sir.”
“Forgive me if I sound crass, but surely when you returned to the Valor, your parents’ belongings, coin or traveling money, remained intact?”
“Clothes, sir, and a few inconsequential items, but I’m afraid my father stashed the coin around his waist in a belt. Lost, at the bottom of the ocean and . . . .”
“I see,” Derek said, rising from the chair. “It isn’t necessary you work to earn your passage. I own three ships. The Valor sails to eastern shores delivering goods on a routine basis. After Mister Radcliff, the coroner, finishes with his inquest, you’ll be free to return to your grandfather at my expense.”
She lifted her chin. “It isn’t possible, Mister Stafford. I won’t take your charity.”
“Please don’t consider it charity. Call it compensation for the death of your parents while aboard one of my ships. It’s only reasonable that―”
“No,” she said quite firmly.
His tone abrupt, he said, “Don’t you think it a little foolish at this point to harbor stubborn pride?”
She grabbed the wrapper from the chair, picked up her satchel and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time, Mister Stafford.”
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“Back to Reverend Hall. He said if I had any―”
“That won’t be necessary.” His voice urgent, he said, “I’m sure we can work something out.” Pacing, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “What type of work suits you?”
“I could tutor your children. I’m quite adept at reading and writing and I have a smattering of passable French.”
A smile curled his lips. “I have no children, Miss Brinsley.”
“Oh.” A long pause before she continued. “I can clean, learn to cook, anything to earn my way.”
He continued his harried gait for a moment, stopped, and looked at her askance. “Very well, I’ll ask Crete to think of something you can do to assist her.”
She smiled. “How much does the position pay?”
“Ten dollars a month, room and board. How does that sound?” He raised a brow at her hesitation. “What is it, Miss Brinsley?”
“The fare to Maine is one hundred dollars,” she replied, knowing she sounded desperate. “I’m certain the position should be worth fifteen dollars a month.”
He tossed his head back and laughed.
“What?” she asked. “Do you find that amusing, outrageous, or simply out of the question?”
“No, it’s not outrageous. Horace said you had pluck, I should have anticipated it.”
She offered her best smile. “You won’t be disappointed, Mister Stafford. I’m a hard worker, certainly no slacker, and a fast learner.”
“Agreed then,” he said, extending his arm.
She shook his hand and released it quickly when a jolt of heat shot up her arm.
“Do you have any other questions or concerns?”
She glanced at the picture of him and Lucinda.
“My wife passed on six months ago.” He ran his fingers through the hair at his forehead. “Thus the reason for the dreadful black crepe adorning every doorway in the damn house.” His eyes moved on to the long sashes over the archways. “Your first duty tomorrow will be to take it all down. I grow weary of looking at it, and I’m certain the spinsters and dowagers of Norfolk agree I’ve complied with the appropriate period of mourning.”
“Yes, Mister Stafford. I’ll see it’s removed first thing. Will that be all?”
“No,” he said, the striking blue eyes gazing into hers. “Is your Christian name Raine?”
She shook her head. “It’s Rainetta. Raine’s a pet name from my grandfather.”
“Raine it shall be then. If there’s anything you need in the line of clothing,” he said, scanning her head-to-toe in the same manner Crete had done moments ago, “there’s an armoire and a bureau stuffed with Lucinda’s garments in the master bedchamber. Feel free to choose whatever you find suitable.”
“I have everything I need right here,” she replied, still clutching the satchel.
He seemed relieved the interview had ended. “You must be quite tired after all the commotion of the last several days.”
Physically exhausted, emotionally drained. “Somewhat, yes.”
“I’ll find Crete and she will show you to your room.” With another bow, he added, “My sympathies again, Miss Brinsley, and please call me Derek.”
“Thank you, Derek,” she said and turned to leave.
Crete found her in the foyer. If she disagreed with Derek’s decision, she kept it to herself. Pleasing to look at, the woman’s eyes were an earthy brown, her nose narrow, and her lips neither sparse nor full. Average in height and weight, she carried herself with confidence and grace.
“Come along, Miss Brinsley, a hot cup of tea awaits you and then I’ll show you to your sleeping quarters.”
“Please call me Raine.”
“Raine it is. Mister Stafford insists you rest for the remainder of the day. You’ll begin your duties in the morning.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Raine nodded. Ushered to a table in Crete’s kitchen, she glanced around the room while waiting for the tea. Well organized, neat and immaculately clean, the woman obviously took great pride in her duties at Stafford House.
Crete joined her at the table, poured two cups of ginger tea and set one before her. “Mister Stafford eats in the dining room, but we take our meals in here. One night a week, Julian Stafford, Derek’s father, and Elne, his mother, arrive for dinner.”
“The elderly couple in the picture, yes, Mister Stafford mentioned them.”
“They’ll arrive tomorrow night.”
“I haven’t served a manor before, but whatever you need me to do, you need only inform me.”
“We’ll go over it in the morning,” the woman said with a friendly smile. “Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp, so if you want to eat, you best be down here.”
Raine wrapped her fingers around the warm mug and delighted in her first cup in several days. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be prompt.”
Crete rose to stir a pot on the stove. A mouth-watering aroma, reminiscent of pot roast and vegetables reached Raine’s nostrils. Other than the meager offerings from the Reverend, she hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
Crete handed her a place setting of fine china and sterling silverware from a nearby shelf. “Wash your hands first and set these on the table in the dining room. Mister Derek will be taking his noontime meal after his ride.”
Raine rose from the table with a nod.
“I’ll have a bowl of stew waiting for you.”
A black man entered through the back door of the kitchen. While Raine washed her hands in the basin, he gave her a broad smile.
“This is Henry,” Crete offered. “Mister Derek’s manservant.” Still smiling, Henry grabbed a bowl from the shelf and filled it with the roast beef, carrots, and potatoes. “And this is Raine Brinsley; she’ll be helping in the manor.
“If’n ya needs something’ from ol’ Henry, ya jess ask.” He nodded, sat down at the table and dove into the stew.
Raine liked him immediately. Something about his mannerisms reminded her of Grandfather. “Pleased to meet you, Henry.”
Raine took the plate and silverware into the dining room, set it on the table and breathed a sigh of relief. Since the accident, she’d been sick with worry over her sorry state of affairs, but at least now she had secured employment. She would return to Grandfather in Camden once she’d earned enough for passage. Returning to the kitchen, she resumed her chair at the table and waited for the bowl of stew, her heart lighter than it had been in days.
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